Breaking The Bonds
by ThePossibilityOfMagic
Summary: Sometimes, the only way to become whole is to break first. Post-Limey/Headhunters.


_Hey there readers. Long time no see. This here is an exceptionally late post-Limey/Headhunters (that I literally started the week before Headhunters aired...), and in all honesty probably would have been even later if not for the constant encouragement/pestering of the lovely Oshi (castlebeckettftw on Tumblr). So here you go, kid. This is for you._

_Disclaimer: Of course, Castle and all its characters still belong to Andrew Marlowe and his team, not me._

_Well, enough said. Hope you like it._

* * *

He wanted to break things.

Smash, tear, crush, shatter, _destroy._

Simply _obliterate_ something, anything, just to try to transfer some of the furious energy that seemed to consume him, burning inside him like a wildfire with endless fuel but nowhere left to go.

And yet, unfortunately for his current state of mind, some things were far easier said than done.

Oh, it wasn't for lack of opportunity– after all, his place was just full of breakable things just _begging_ to be destroyed. The mug with 'Partner' emblazoned across the side that he had always saved for Beckett's coffee. The framed photo of the team from the 12th that sat on his desk, with he and Beckett at the very center of the shot. The antique fountain pen Beckett had given him for his birthday the year before. All the little pieces of _her_ that had infiltrated his home and his life, popping up everywhere like poisonous mushrooms that only seemed to multiply anytime his back was turned.

So many things, really, and all so very tempting.

But, thanks to the two women who were entirely too perceptive for their own good– or his, for that matter– the shattered remains of his tainted memories all over the floor would hardly go unnoticed, and it was for that simple fact alone that he was currently far away from his loft, far from the temptations that called to his newfound destructive urges like a siren to a sailor.

Instead, he walked the streets – his stride long and impatient, hands shoved firmly into the pockets of his coat, head down– channeling his rage into the soles of his feet, pounding the pavement as if each step took him closer to being free of her. His knitted brow and deep scowl drew no particular interest from passersby; these were New Yorkers, after all, and an appearance of dissatisfaction with life was not only normal, but almost expected.

As thankful as he was for his fellow citizens' complete lack of interest in one another's problems, he did wish– for one of the few times in his life– that he had been born elsewhere, some small town in the middle of nowhere that no one ever even noticed on a map. Not only would it have prevented him from ever crossing paths with a certain female cop, but it would have meant that he'd have been bound to have access to all kinds of handy instruments for the release of his frustrations.

Like hunting rifles. Or axes, those big heavy-handled ones used for chopping down trees. Or even just some good-sized rocks to throw really hard.

Any of those would do just fine.

Instead, he was limited to the urban equivalent; seething silently as all anger and frustration was internalized and stowed away, left to simmer in the depths of his subconscious, finding release only in the occasional brusque bump of the shoulder with a passerby, usually followed by a caustic, "Watch it, buddy!" or "Hey! Walking here!"

And yet, satisfying as they were, such encounters had proven far too infrequent to be of any actual use in venting his frustrations. Pulling up his collar against the chill that had risen with the oncoming darkness, Castle gritted his teeth and simply increased his pace, his long legs covering the distance quickly– though without a destination in mind, it was difficult to deny that his hasty journey was not so much about where he was _going_ but what he getting away _from_.

Unfortunately, thoughts could not be left behind so easily as places could.

Seeking some form of distraction– anything at all to get _her_ out of his head– he began to observe the dwindling stream of people passing by, falling into an old writers' game of guessing the stories of all those he encountered. Soon enough, though, all those who looked unhappy had clearly just been betrayed by someone they loved, and all that seemed happy were simply yet to discover the betrayal that was surely imminent.

He was midway through fabricating a scenario in which the young couple up ahead was just about to be rent apart by the revelation that she was sleeping with the guy's brother when, suddenly, a small shriek reached his ears, jolting him out of his bitter daydream and into reality.

Focusing more closely on the couple, Castle saw the man grasp the woman's arms, his voice a low, angry growl as he shook the woman, his face just inches from hers.

Castle didn't hesitate, didn't stop to think or consider the situation. Moving forward swiftly, he called out, "Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The woman snapped around to look at him, her voice pleading as she called for help.

"Shut it, bitch!" The other man snarled, shoving the woman up against a glass storefront, her head meeting the glass with a sickening crack. The man released one hand, lifting it as though to strike her, but Castle moved quicker; having just reached them, he intercepted the man's swing, his hand closing tightly around the man's wrist.

Instantly, their eyes locked– raw, unmasked fury mirrored in both– and, in that moment, the wildfire within him finally found the outlet it had been seeking.

Oh yeah, he wanted to break things.

Starting with this guy's face.

###

Well, the good news was that he wasn't so angry anymore.

The not-so-good news was that he was still hurting– his emotional pain simply switched for its physical counterpart, leaving him nursing bruised flesh as well as his already bruised heart.

But hey, at least he was no longer tempted to trash his apartment.

Elbowing the freezer door closed, Castle scooped up a teatowel from the counter, wrapping it around his lucky find– a bag of peas shoved in the farthest corner of the freezer– before gingerly pressing the bundle to his face. A small hiss escaped his lips, part relief, part pain, but he determinedly kept the makeshift icepack in place, knowing that the sooner he grew accustomed to it, the better.

Not to mention that the sooner he was able to make the swelling go down, the less serious it would look– and therefore the less likely Alexis would be to totally tear him to shreds when she saw it tomorrow night. Of course, she'd never know just how lucky he was to have gotten off so lightly.

A black eye, a bruised rib or two– that was nothing. He'd gotten worse in grade school. But throwing himself at that guy tonight, that was… reckless. He wasn't a fighter– never had been– and that guy could have easily had a knife, or a gun, anything. If he'd been smart, he would have just pulled out his phone and threatened to call the cops if he didn't leave the girl alone.

But no, apparently his current anger issues made him stupid as well as constantly miserable.

Sinking down onto the couch, Castle simply breathed deeply for a moment, letting his muscles relax, his aches slowly easing. In the end, it hadn't mattered that he hadn't called the cops, thanks to the rare– and obviously more level-headed– citizen that had seen his little scuffle break out, and had done the dialing for him.

Not that he'd needed the backup, though.

In fact, he'd totally been winning.

Though, admittedly– and probably thankfully– the fact that his opponent had rabbited the moment the sirens came into earshot had spared him from finding out just who the eventual victor would have been.

Needless to say, he probably wouldn't be sitting here right now with just a couple of bruises and nothing more than a friendly reprimand from an officer buddy.

Hell, it certainly beat sitting in a hospital bed being booked for Disturbing The Peace. Been there, done that, and he was in no hurry for it to happen again. Thankfully though, luck had been with him; the first responder had been Officer Anderson, a good cop whom he knew from dozens of crime scenes– and, even better, for whose wife he had only just signed a copy of Heat Rises the week before.

Add to that that the girl– her name was Clara, he'd found out– had been quick to explain that he'd come to her aid, only acting to protect her from an abusive soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend, and the officers had been happy enough to not to bother with charges.

Instead, they'd simply taken his statement, given him some tissues to plug his bloody nose, and dropped him home.

Really, it was good to have friends in the Force.

At that thought, a sudden tightness gripped his chest, a different kind of ache filling him.

The team at the 12th had not only been his friends, but his family, and– thanks to his idiocy in thinking that following Slaughter was a totally brilliant idea, or more honestly, a brilliant way to punish Beckett– he may have just lost them all.

Guess it seemed like his anger issues were causing him more damage than just bruises.

God, he wished he could let it go. Just let the fury and hurt just evaporate away, so he could go back to the 12th and let it be how it had been before– when being near her hadn't caused stabs of pain in his chest, and looking at her left him breathless for much more pleasant reasons than the hurt and betrayal and _heartbreak_ that would rob his breath any time their eyes met now.

Sighing, he opened his good eye, lowering it to focus on the red, inflamed skin of his knuckles. Already the swelling had gone right down, his body working away at returning the flesh to its previous uninjured state, and he couldn't help but sigh at the sight of it.

If only emotional wounds could heal so quickly.

Gently clenching and unclenching the hand, Castle drew in a long, slow breath.

He knew what he had to do.

He had to accept that he'd never get over her.

And, of course, he had to accept that it was his own damn fault. All his life, he'd held a single belief: if you gave someone your heart, all of it, you were effectively guaranteeing your own destruction. It was something he had learned from his parents; after all, his mother had given over her heart to his father, and he'd promptly walked away with it, leaving her with a hole in her chest that Castle had spent his life trying to help her patch back up.

And so, as he'd grown, he'd formed a rule. Love freely, but never completely.

For years, he lived comfortably by that rule, content with a stream of fun and uncomplicated relationships. Then he'd met Kate, and by the time he finally realized just how much danger he was in, it was already too late.

He broke his own goddamn rule, and now he had to live with the consequences.

A sudden flare of pain in his hand drew him back to reality; looking down, he realized that his fingers were clenched into a tight fist, hard enough for his nails to dig into his palm and his bruised knuckles to burn in protest. Releasing a slow, deliberate breath, Castle carefully eased his grip, willing his muscles to relax once more.

Shifting the frozen bundle that was still pressed to his eye, Castle lifted the other hand, rubbing his suddenly aching temple. He was tempted by the idea of a soothing glass of scotch– just something to take the edge off– but he knew he wouldn't. That was another hard lesson he'd learned from his mother; never use alcohol to try to heal heartbreak. Over forty years later and she was still drinking the pain away.

Deciding on water and tylenol instead– the safer option– he pushed himself off the couch, feeling glad when he was able to perform the movement without any complaint from his abused muscles.

He was halfway to the fridge when a quiet knock at the door made him pause. Glancing down at his shirt– which was still stained with blood, though proudly, not entirely his own– he hesitated briefly, then shrugged. It wasn't like he could hide the black eye, after all. Questions would still be asked.

Heading for the door, Castle deposited his makeshift icepack on the side table, wiping the residual dampness from his face with one hand while the other closed around the door handle. Then, feeling moderately presentable– blood on his shirt still notwithstanding– he pulled open the door.

He was not prepared.

Not prepared for the sharp spear of pain that pierced through the center of his chest, for the sudden lack of oxygen that was burning his unsuspecting lungs, for the ache that spread throughout his entire body and seemed to burn the back of his eyes.

And even more, he was not prepared for the flood of emotion that swamped him, a confusing mixture of conflicting feelings that were constantly at war with one another, yet also melded together until he wasn't sure what was what. It was like someone had thrown everything he felt for her into a giant washing machine and all the angry reds had seeped into the loving whites and now everything was just an utterly bewildering pink and he really didn't know how pink was supposed to feel.

So, really, he just really wasn't prepared to see _her_.

And man, Alexis' repeated scoldings about never checking the peephole before opening the door were most assuredly coming back to bite him in the ass right about now.

"Jesus," Beckett half-whispered, her eyes fixing on what was now probably a rather impressive shiner surrounding his left eye. He was still struggling to adjust to the emotional tornado that was her presence– where was a figurative storm shelter when he needed one_– _ when she stepped closer, her hand lifting as she reached for him.

"_Castle…" _she said hoarsely, her fingers bare millimeters from brushing his cheek when he reacted instinctively, flinching away from her touch, his body carrying him backwards a step or two as if removing him from harm's way.

Realizing what he'd just done, his eyes flicked back to hers, both of them staring at each other in momentary shock– he'd never, _never_ rejected her touch before, and it hit them both harder than he ever could have expected. Seeing the hastily-suppressed hurt on her face, the sudden bright sheen to her eyes, Castle had to blink and look away, pain and remorse burning in the back of his throat.

Forcing the emotion down, he reminded himself that he had every right to be mad right now. _She _broke them, not him. She deserved to see the consequences.

Taking a deep breath, he schooled his features and set his jaw, then turned back to face her, meeting her eyes with a level gaze.

"What are you after, Beckett?"

That sounded good. Much more polite than _what the hell do you want from me _or _why are you doing this_, both questions that had spent a lot of time at the forefront of his mind lately. Still, her eyes flickered as if he'd just shouted profanities at her, and for a moment he was again torn– torn between wanting to wrap her in his arms and apologize over and over, and tearing his hair out as he begged her to just make the pain stop.

But he did neither.

Instead, he settled for simply raising an eyebrow, and waited.

Clearing her throat, she looked at her feet for a moment– what was running through her head right then, he would probably never know– but when she looked back at him, her eyes were almost pleading.

"Can I–?" she asked unsteadily, her hand lifting in a small, timid gesture, seeking permission to enter.

He wanted to say no. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say _only if you stay forever._

So he said nothing.

Stepping aside, he allowed her to pass him, holding his breath so as to escape any danger of inhaling that intoxicating cherry scent. Closing the door, he took a brief moment to brace himself before turning back around, his eyes immediately locking onto her slim form, drinking her in like he were an artist and she his greatest masterpiece.

Then he blinked, shaking his head as he forced himself to focus. Following her into the lounge room, he crossed his arms over his chest, steeling his spine. He could do this. He could survive her.

He _would_ survive her.

"So?" he asked, his voice low, expectant. Waiting. _Justify yourself_.

She turned slightly, her eyes fixed somewhere on the floor between them, her body still side-on to him. He recognized that stance. She'd taught it to him once, forever ago, when teaching him about gunfights.

_"Stand side-on," she'd said, her hands coming to rest on his hips as she forced him to twist, angling his body. Then she'd smiled up at him. "Smaller target, harder to hit. If bullets do start flying, you'll be less likely to catch any damage."_

Misery and anger and shame suddenly roiled in his gut, his teeth clenching. To her, she was the target and he the loaded gun. Funny, since _he'd _been the one to come away bleeding.

"Anderson called me," she said eventually, seemingly realizing that he would give her nothing. "He thought I might want to see if my… to see if you were okay."

"I'll live," he answered curtly, knowing he wasn't just talking about tonight's injuries. She seemed to sense it as well, her eyes finally lifting from the floor to look up at him. Suddenly, she stilled, her eyes fixing on his crossed arms– no, just above– and he looked down, again seeing the small, dark stain discoloring his blue shirt.

"It's nothing," he said gruffly, hating the look of horror in her eyes. "Some of it isn't even mine."

She barely seemed to hear him, her eyes still locked on his chest, seemingly unable to look away. When she spoke, her voice was barely more than a whisper.

"What happened?"

"What, your buddy Anderson didn't tell you?" he said acidly, then instantly regretted it. That was petty, and he _hated_ petty. Nevertheless, it seemed like it had been his default setting lately– ever since that bomb case had blown his perfectly constructed fantasy to smithereens– and he was sick of it.

God, it was exhausting, hating her and himself at the same time.

Looking at her once more– seeing the way her arms were wrapped around herself, hugging her slim, fragile frame as if for protection, her face averted, her breathing uneven– he felt his anger wither into something much harder to deal with, his body even taking a hesitant step in her direction before he once more regained control, tightening his arms over his chest as if holding himself together.

"I was out, just walking. There was a guy and girl struggling a little ahead of me," he explained, his voice low. "She needed help, so I stepped in to let him know that since his advances were clearly unwanted, it would be wisest for him to back off."

Huffing a small, humorless laugh, he added, "Which really has a depressing kind of hilarity to it, given the present circumstances."

At his words, her eyes snapped up to meet his, her brow creasing.

Then, stepping closer, she asked, "What's that supposed to mean?"

He shook his head, his tone carefully dismissive. "Nothing, never mind."

"It's not nothing, Castle. None of this has been 'nothing'!"

Stepping in close, she reached for him– and before he had time to react, her fingers were curling around his hand where it still rested against his bicep, her grip urgent, desperate.

Reflexively he jerked back, his breath inhaling in a sharp hiss at the unexpected contact– more so out of shock at her touch than at any sensation of pain in his bruised knuckles– and instantly she released him, her face horrified.

"Please, Beckett," he gritted out, "Let's just… let's just not make this hurt more than it already does, okay?"

"God, Castle, I'm so sorry," she said, her voice wavering slightly as she stared at his hand. "Can I– can I get you some ice or something?"

He knew it was totally inappropriate and insensitive, but he couldn't help it. The laughter simply forced itself past his lips, a rough, cruel bark that was more mocking than amused. Looking hurt and confused, she took a step back, her arms once more wrapping around herself, shield locking back in place.

And suddenly, he hated himself for it.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he took a deep breath, calming himself. Then, opening them once more, he took a step forward, closing the physical gap between them even if the emotional one was still far too great for either of them to breach.

"Look, Kate…" he began, making an effort to gentle his tone. He'd thought punishing her would help, would heal the wound she'd made– but the more he hurt her, the deeper that invisible knife seemed to lodge in his heart, and he couldn't handle any more.

The sooner he was able to treat her like the friend she once was, the sooner they could both start trying to heal.

Looking aside, he controlled a sigh. "You know, I'm pretty tired. How about I see you at the precinct in a day or two."

It was the best olive branch he could offer right now, as much as he was able to handle. Stepping aside, he unfolded his arms, gesturing slightly towards the door.

Determinedly ignoring the slow burn of misery that was rising in his chest, he forced himself to wait silently as she simply looked at the door, hesitation and conflict written all over her face. He was moments from losing control and reaching for her when suddenly she looked up at him, that intent gaze swiftly yanking him back to reality and back to his senses.

God, he was in danger here. She had too much of a grip on him– mind, body and soul– and the sooner she was gone, the better it would be for both of them.

Taking just the slightest step closer, she took a deep breath, her eyes still holding his, imprisoning him with that imploring gaze. "Castle…"

No. He couldn't let her break down his defenses again. Carefully averting his gaze, he stood firm, his expression revealing nothing.

"Goodnight, Kate."

He both heard and felt the sharp huff that escaped her lips, saw her hand lift to rake through her hair, her frustration clear.

"Goddammit, _Castle –"_

She was angry now; he could feel it, could feel the emotion radiating between them like heat. But he was having none of it. If she was fire, he would be ice.

Taking a small step back, he kept his voice flat, cold. "Go, Beckett."

Her gaze locked onto his, her eyes full of fire but her voice brittle, like glass about to shatter.

"You really want me to leave?"

_No. Yes. No. Never._

"Yes."

"I don't believe you," she said quietly, her voice fragile, but with an undercurrent of iron belief behind her words. Stepping in close, she lifted her hands to gently cup the sides of his face, holding him frozen under her touch.

"I don't believe you," she repeated, this time in a broken, shaky whisper, her eyes bright with the sheen of tears.

And then, before he even had a chance to remember how to breathe, she lifted on her toes and pressed her lips to his.

It was as if she'd tasered him.

For a split second he was frozen, paralyzed, as if the shock of her lips had severed all connection between his body and his brain– and then suddenly the lightning hit, and instantly every inch of him was alive with electricity, flooding through his veins and sparking from his skin.

One hand fisted in the shirt at her waist; the other lifting to wrap around her forearm, locking her in place, anchoring them both to solid ground.

And then– before he had time to think, to hesitate, to question– he was kissing her back, his mouth fusing to hers like a drowning man latching onto the only thing that could keep him afloat.

The anger, the hurt, the betrayal– all of it was gone, replaced by a single, desperate wish to hold on and never let go, because the moment she did– and she would, he knew she would, knew that this heaven could only ever be temporary, a fleeting glimpse of the love he dreamed of– the moment she let go he would be lost, sinking like a stone, never to taste the oxygen that was her lips ever again.

And so he cherished every second, his lips mapping hers, committing every feeling, every detail to his memory, ensuring he would never forget her taste. Someday soon, when this memory was all he had left of her, he would write this moment down, his finest work that none other than him would ever see.

Several moments later, he felt her fingers tighten against his skull, her thumbs pressing into his temples as if trying to pass some thought from her mind to his. He knew what would follow even before it happened– had known it was inevitable from the moment their lips had met– and yet still, when her lips left his, it hit him harder than any of the punches he'd received earlier in the evening, his lungs seemingly no longer able to draw in oxygen, his heart stuttering as it tried vainly to remember how to follow a rhythm.

Without a word, she drew his head down until his forehead rested against hers, her rapid, uneven breath feathering against his lips. His body was tense, his eyes remaining tightly closed– he simply couldn't bear to look at her, couldn't bear to allow that spark of hope to light in his chest. He had experienced the pain of having that flame extinguished, and it was better– for both of them– that it stay out, that he stayed in the darkness where he couldn't see the ruins that his heart and life had become.

"Tell me you don't feel it," she gasped suddenly, her voice breaking in on his thoughts, her tone a mixture of challenge and desperation, fear and defiance. "Tell me you don't still love me back."

_Back?_

"Back?" he rasped, his voice as rough as if he'd just swallowed a lungful of smoke. And really, considering the sudden blaze of hope that was now roaring in his chest, the metaphor wasn't too far from the truth.

She made a noise of affirmation deep in her throat, her nose brushing ever so lightly against his cheek as she gave a small nod. Then, forcing his head up, she spoke his name softly, her thumbs gently stroking his temples, willing him to open his eyes.

Drawing in a deep breath, he did as she wished, opening them as hesitantly as if it were Medusa that stood before him, and not the woman he had been in love with for so long. Though, mythical being or not, it was certainly within the power of both to turn his heart to stone.

Finally, his eyes lifted and fixed upon hers, widening in shock as he saw the silent tears leaving faint tracks upon her cheeks. His fingers tightened on her arm, his mouth opening in dismay, but before he could speak even a single word she simply cut him off, her eyes boring deep into his.

"I love you, Castle," she whispered hoarsely, the words slipping from her lips like they'd been trying to escape for years. Reeling, he simply stared as she blinked fresh tears from her eyes, adding waveringly, "Just please don't say I left it too long to tell you that."

For a split second, he was simply frozen, unable to react.

_I love you, Castle._

He wasn't imagining it. He wasn't dreaming. This was real.

_This was real._

And suddenly, he felt like he was trying to breathe underwater, his chest burning and throat tight, his mind devoid of any thought but her.

"_Kate_," he choked out, the word barely making it past his lips before they were once more fused to hers, both of them drowning in the flood of emotion that engulfed them like a tidal wave.

One hand lifted to cup the back of her head, his fingers burying into her hair while her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, both of them clinging to each other like their very lives depended on it.

And in a way, maybe they did. Because this was it; this was the moment they had been heading towards for their entire lives, long before they had even ever met. The collision, that single juncture that tied them together forever; the moment that was both an end and a beginning.

This was it, and now that they had reached it, there was no holding back.

Crushing his mouth to hers, Castle held her close, unable to think about anything but the emotion passing through her lips as she kissed him back hard, both lost in the feel of each other.

Eventually, they managed to draw apart, resting their foreheads together as they both struggled to catch their breath, both physically and emotionally overwhelmed.

Still gripping him tightly, it was Beckett that finally broke the silence, her fingers trailing lightly through his hair as she spoke.

"We're going to have to talk about this, later."

"Words are overrated," Castle murmured, his lips busy brushing tiny, soft kisses over her cheeks and jaw, revelling in the tiny, involuntary shivers that rippled through her with each press of his lips.

Clearly seeing the irony in that statement, she gave a soft, breathy laugh, one that sent a shiver throughout his own body, his every nerve alive with heightened sensitivity.

"Still, we're gonna need them."

Raising his eyebrows slightly in question, he stilled, ceasing his feather-light kisses to meet her gaze, asking slowly, "But not right now?"

Beckett gave him a small, coy smile, then shook her head slightly, her nose brushing his cheek.

"Not right now."

Then, as if cementing her point, she slowly slid a hand down his arm to curl her fingers around his, her eyes never leaving his as she stepped backward, gently pulling him towards the bedroom.

Gripping her hand like it was the only thing keeping him anchored in reality– _because, oh god, this was real and this was really happening_– he simply followed where she led, something that he would be happy to do every moment of every day for the rest of his life.

Once across the threshold, she pulled him close, one hand cupping the back of his neck as she drew his head down, resting her forehead once more against his.

"It's always been you," she whispered, and he could hear the honesty, the depth of emotion to her words. "Only ever you."

For a moment, he simply held her gaze, seeing his own love reflected in her eyes, a silent look of hope and promise. Swallowing back the emotion that once more threatened to overwhelm him, he lowered his head and gently pressed his lips to hers, letting his kiss say what words never could.

They were here. They were real. And they were never letting go.

And– at long last, after four years of love and pain, friendship and misunderstanding – all that was broken finally became whole.

* * *

_Well, that was it. Hope you enjoyed it, and remember that any comments/suggestions for improvement are always welcome!_

_Thanks for reading!_


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